Where authors have to be silenced

What is a state? Is it an ethical or a moral construct that is sacrosanct? Or, is it a structure of power that we agree to share and abide by?

Why is there so much moral sanctomoniousness, and Arnab Goswami's incandescent white pure rage, at Arundhati Roy's comments? Who are these custodians of state, and why don't I feel what they do: the deep rumbling sound of structures breaking down from the foundation of India?

Kids do not like to think that their parents have sex. So be it, and I am not a person who goes to a kid and rubs that fact in their eye. But, I'm sure, adults do not need to think like that. Why can't these media people and foaming-at-the-mouth retired generals and politicians accept the fact that there are a lot of people in Kashmir for whom the idea of a just and moral India is a mere charade.

Why do we have to pretend that? Kashmir is going nowhere and nor are we vacating the place. It is puerile to think that a country will give up on all these years of investments and and cartographical "prestige" in Kashmir. We might not be morally unimpeachable, but we are here to stay. Why the hell can't we accept the fact?

Why this craving for a shine of morality on the heavy boot of Indian state? I can understand the nightmares Arnab might have had if he couldn't convince himself that he is a good person before he went to sleep the night Arundhati Roy spoke. But what is Indian state doing with such individual, immature insecurities?

And look at the results. The might of the state and the media is directed against one individual, who didn't even have to lift her little finger to make the next superpower knot up its knickers in a bunch.

And how weak can a state be that it cannot withstand a single writer? Arundhati perhaps had higher hopes from India when she made those remarks. Perhaps, she is a bit depressed at ease with which the prestige of a state shattered and the shards flew everywhere, when, at worst, she might have wanted to tease.

Rather than the crazy gnashing of teeth, a little lightness of touch would add dignity to the death of the soldiers who died defending the state that everybody is trying to protect now from imaginary defilement.

Arse Poetica

I

Are you dying, honey?
You followed your plan,
Earned a little money,
And made sense of things.

But, is it done?
Has the path been run?
What perilous wonders, what laistragonians you saw?
The vacuum rings bells
While the cat licks its paw.

The blue bird sings.
The silence will thaw.


II

In the beginning, there was a PPT
Summarising the benefits of the Word.
The Good Lord could see
How slick presentations would solve the Absurd,
And give meaning to all Earth and Heaven.

But yesterday, at half-past seven
A divine aporia came to me
And asked with concern, “O Twiddle Dee,

How will you now play your card?
The file’s corrupted, haven’t you heard?”


III

Now is the summer of my, oh what?
What the fuck!
I have forgotten my part,
And, given my luck,
I have all of you staring at me.

Can you pretend you could see
My smokes and mirrors,
And the earnest heart?

Rhyme and rhema go in hand in hand.
I mourn the Ithaca buried in sand.


IV

Are you dying, honey? Are you dying?
Farewell my Celia,
Time’s aflying.

Knowing

There are ways to know.
When the finger touches the skin
Or, when in soft sinking snow
You dig deep to find the ground.

Who knows what's better:
The subcutaneous sin
Drawing the fingers to a flickering glow?
Or, the patient furrowing on ground?
Or, the shaken epiphany of a yawning sound?